"A Little Space," the self-titled CD of Alan Gruskoff's creation is an assemblage of cheesy jazz/fusion instrumentals and heavy-handed, yet cheesier vocal songs. The instrumentals sound like background music for football stats on TV or other non-offensive fare. The vocal songs sound like an exercise routine for errant jazz musicians.

With each tracks performances done almost entirely by the writer, a mistake which tends to emphasize the quirks and failings of the performer by layering them one on top of the other, there is little room for the song to rise above the player(s) and become its own animal. Thus the common tendency of musicians to overestimate their own ability to be proficient at each instrument turns their music into a virtual isolation tank.

The reliance on the MIDI system to create the beloved sounds of classical instruments is another real hindrance to any feeling of "space" being found in the music. Track 13's tribute to 9-11 victims entitled "Heart in My Hand" has its emotion sapped by the flavorless imitation string quartet he uses. As for the virtual drums, there's no substitute for the real thing, no matter how obnoxious your drummer's personality is.

A competent fretless bassist who is obviously a veteran of the jazz scene, Gruskoff fails to sell us on his compositional skills. There is a plodding feel to much of this music that cannot be entirely attributed to the artificial instruments or slightly off-tune vocals. Could it be that perhaps there are studio musicians who should remain hired guns, leaving the composition to others? Only true inspiration can save jazz music from the mundane white wash assaulting it from every side. (Serena Vale)

Who's been waiting for that precise intersection of Sting, Eminem, and "Crank Yankers?" I know I have. (And it's not even a band in the latest Chris Guest movie.) Anyway, the majority of this disc is Sting. That's right--Sting. It can't be a soundalike, writealike or playalike dude. It's either Sting or a clone or a well-connected set of bootlegs. As for those other components, into the middle of der Stingle comes some rap (Eminem flow, not tone); I don't mean separate songs, but raps in the middle of the songs. "Tanner" is a track that's done as a fake phone call telling Clear Channel et al. where to go. Actually, all this adds up to an interesting listen. Really! (SCIsadore)

The Bottlehouse is a Minneapolis-based alt-rock quintet that uses multiple combinations of songwriters, a varied tone pallet, and both male and female lead vocals to great effect. It's a mildly schitzo listen but the tracks fronted by Karl Obermeyer's swoopy Vedder-esque lines tend to be louder (Heavier?) and guitar-driven, while Emily Olsen's northern-Lucinda numbers are cleaner and key-based. The band covers many styles from pseudo-folk to some loud rock. Overall, the playing is tight and serves the songs nicely. I really can't think of much to compare this to and that's a compliment. This is one of the few submissions that grabbed me right away and one of the best I've heard in my decades at Demorama! Big ups! (SCIsadore)

nap@bitstream.net

 

 

 

Box-O-Car roars out of the gate in fine form on this seven-song (four studio, three live) EP. This is heavier power-pop with more than a couple of stylistic nods (Brit accents!?!?!) toward their Chi-town brethren Material Issue. (Even to the point of hiring their ex-drummer after this was recorded.) The four studio tunes are damn near perfect; hooky, melodic, and ballsy, yet not toooo tied to the limitations (rules?) of the genre. The three live cuts are a bit more reckless and noisy, but winners nonetheless. Very good. (SCIsadore)

It pains me to say that the music of The Cruzarz is bad, as I have sympathy for the innocence of Christian musicians. But religious fervor alone does not an art-piece make.

The adequate rock music on "So True" suffers from another problem besides the utter predictability of the chord progressions: a vocalist who's bizarre, thick speech-singing prompts one to ask, is this a joke?

Beautiful packaging and a nice decal for your car window are the best things to be gleaned from this album. And although Owen Gwyn, the songwriter, singer, and guitarist for this band believes that "If your heart is in the Spirit when you write a song, then the Spirit will be in the music when it's played," I'm afraid that the Spirit is not being transmitted to this listener. This CD reaffirms the ideas of Christians but does not convert new ones, owing to a total lack of soul. (Serena Vale)

http://www.zatchymusic.com/

Short answer: No. No, I do not dig.

Long answer: So about a year ago, circa April, me and the Demorama Super Elite Clique went out for a Minneapolitan night of Mexican food and live rockshow power action, all amped and stoked and such to be but a few of the million faces to be rocked at the time and hopefully in points future by some aspiring new Band Of Hotness. Despite the snow (yes, snow in APRIL), we were in fairly high spirits, blissfully unaware of what was to befall us. Eventually we made our way to Lee's for one of those "six bands in one night" deals, mostly because we liked the opener (name omitted to protect the innocent). But what with us being the types to always be on the lookout for fresh new stuff and all, we decided to stick around, and see if this next band -- "Idle Hands," they were called -- were worth checking out.

Suffice it to say that they were, much in the same way that it is in the interest of one's entertainment to watch Billy Squier's "Rock Me Tonight" video. Nobody at our table really paid attention to the music, given how inert and ass-draggingly "indie-pop-rock-like" it was. Mostly we just sat there and snickered at how the band's lead singer seemed to be the main reason the band was named such. The man flailed his eponymous oven mitts around as though he was testing out his new science-miracle hand transplants, necessitated after losing his fingers in a tragic pinball accident. He stuck them in his jeans, played aimlessly with a beer bottle, and basically acted the part of some sort of Minnesota Fats of pocket pool, albeit with a probable "hey ladies, look what I can do with these fantastic fingers of love" motive behind those theatrics. It was sad. Sad and corny.

It should have been a memorably bad performance, though the memory must have faded by the time I dug this demo out of the "feeding trough" and looked over the band's name with nary a flicker of recognition. I figured it'd be a decent listen, what with the fact that the liner notes credit a guy who plays moog (instrument of the gods) and the photos made the guys look like a bunch of NYC hipsters -- types who, while often unsound of character and decency, usually make swank-ass music. It was only later, after I had chosen this particular demo, that I realized my mistake. I hoped that my opinion of them was merely clouded by the frustration of an April blizzard and the sight of this man's thinly-veiled attempts at onstage self-stimulation. They should, I guessed, at least be better on record.

Wrong.

It should be stated that I do not like Oasis very much. The Idle Hands are, for the most part, the Brothers Gallagher and company (possibly including Bez) only with nasal Midwesternism and the Dandy Warhols in place of the Beatles. Lest you think that somehow denotes a catchy, crunchy-type pop-rock assault, I should mention that "Sorry Now," one of the more laconic midtempo pieces on this 5-song EP, has reared its head every so often on Cities 97 (Minnesota's own radio station devoted to the boring bastard children of REM, as well as REM themselves) and fits right in alongside toothless mush like Counting Crows and the Jayhawks. I am also averse to excess whiny condescension in lyrics, and it's all over this EP like a rash, from the title track's "why are you so boring" hectoring to "Dissipated's" attack on "stupid people like you/who've forgotten how to lie and how to be true." Most pathetic of all is "Manifesto," which takes every single bitter, cynical I-was-indie-garage-before-you jaded hipster rant about the Strokes ever written and adds one of the most laughably childish opening lines I've heard in ages to kick it off: "All you trust fund babies can smoke my pole." Ooooh BURN. Yeah, way to stick it to all those phony rock star rich kid ex-teenage models like... er... Marc Bolan (oops, wait, T. Rex is listed as an influence, my bad).

The Brian Jonestown Massacre's Anton Newcombe was so struck by the band's stage presence during one show that he signed them to his label almost immediately. You'd think that the press kit would find a quote from him more substantial than his assertion that their singer is "one fucking handsome man," but hey, go with what's important. I'm just hoping that nobody falls for this shit -- the Idle Hands can cram their hands in their pockets all they want, but keep them the hell out of mine. (Nate Patrin)

Damn You, Dan Israel! Much like your previous full-band disc (Mama's Kitchen), I was ready to slag this off as another roots-rock genre exercise, but after a half-dozen or so listens, I was hooked again. Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, shame on you! The main strength of this disc is the personal songwriting, but the playing is ace, also. There are enough tastefully-used sonic curveballs (drum loops, mariachi horns)to broaden the rootsy sound. I'd imagine that Israel's emotive fuzzy blanket vocals would be the hangup as far as radio goes, but don't let that stop you! And be sure to listen all the way to the end as the last three songs are very strong. A Winner! (SCIsadore)

I am so blown away after reading the press kit, I am almost afraid to listen to the album for fear of being disappointed. An "epic alternative rock" album "starting with immense power and ending with crushing strength." Does it live up? Well, sort of.

Les' "The View From Here" is a decent stab at modern, post-grunge, theatric-rock/corporate heavy metal. Although Les blows away most garage bands churning out similar cock-rock guitar noise, it's still nowhere close to being moving, original, emotional or special. This album does contain the "crushing solid sounds" promised in their press kit, but I feel shortchanged on the "rising sonic anthems" and the "unapologetic songwriting" they promised me. In fact, if at all possible, I would like an apology. (Jacob Caravan)

The first song, a direct rip-off of the sad old song, "I Want Candy," started me off on the wrong foot. "Welcome to the Land of  L.U.V.," by, you guessed it, L.U.V., is a colorful package wrapped around the same old thing.

The liner art has some interesting things to say but the same cannot be said for this self-congratulatory music. Heavy on sap-ridden blues guitars and very thick orchestration, with enormous intros and interludes that cause the listener to grow violently impatient, this well-produced, well-played stuff does not communicate anything heavier than the encouragement to 'rock on!?

And rock on I shall, to some other, better music. (Serena Vale)

I was looking earlier today for an online store I could buy an STP ballcap -- not out of any particular motor oil brand loyalty, but out of the need to rep St. Paul. Problem is, the only sites I could find via google were ones devoted to Stone Temple Pilots. I fucking hate Stone Temple Pilots. Man From Fiery Hill sound like Stone Temple Pilots. I wish Stone Temple Pilots never existed so it would be easier for me to find STP apparel. I also wish Stone Temple Pilots never existed so that Man From Fiery Hill could shamelessly ape a less pathetic band. I'm guessing this is really all you need to know. Oh, wait, this is a live CD. You might need to know that. It's not Cheap Trick at Budokan. It's not even Frampton Comes Alive (and don't front, "Show Me The Way" is great pop). I wish I cared enough to write something more detailed, but I figure if I make this review as boring and aimless as the CD sounds, that should make everything as detailed as it needs to be. I am going to have a sandwich now. (Nate Patrin)

I picked these guys out because they're named after this old-school badass wrestler who went on to be a member of the '80s WWF tag team Demolition. "Here comes the Ax, here comes the Smasher..." Yeah, those guys. You'd think that a band named after a professional wrestler would sound pretty hardassed, but you'd be wrong. I think this Masked Superstar is going for a comedic alt-country vibe here, given their goofy-warbling nasal singer (think Alfalfa at 19), their propensity to play guitar in a way that seems intentionally sloppy and irritating, and their tendency to give songs extraneous instrumentation that doesn't seem all that necessary (like the monotone synth buzzes in "The Liquor Stars" and "Hang On Sloppy"). I'll be generous and say they feel like a simultaneous tribute to Big Star's Southern power-pop and the Mountain Goats' brainy weirdo-folk, though it's a tribute played with only a minor amount of gusto and a major amount of lo-fi clunkiness. Not recommended for those easily prone to headaches, as the squeaky guitar and the synth crap makes me feel like I've taken a sloppy clothesline to the back of the head. A walking disaster. (Nate Patrin)

Wes McDonald plays a pretty straight-ahead brand of radio ready rock here; it covers many styles from acoustic/strummy groove- rock to quiet/loud/quiet Pearl Jam-sorta stuff. There's a pretty good vibe for a one-man band project--not too compressed and enough ideas/styles to make it sound like more than one guy is playing. My minor quibble is that Wes' vaguely Tweedy-esque vox can't really cover all of the styles attempted. The stronger (the acoustic-based ones, I think) cuts would probably do OK on AAA radio. (SCIsadore)

I found my leg bouncing and keeping time with many of the songs on this CD, which can only mean I was actually interested and absorbed in the music. Not every song succeeds, but the majority are top-notch rockers. The band achieves a kind of stripped-down atmospheric quality with a pop sensibility. One can only hope their new drummer keeps the band as tight as Michael Noyes—who bolted for Los Angeles—did on this album. Top honors. (Mike Mitchelson)

Frankly, I don't see how Miscelaneous can resurrect "the legendary Minneapolis sound" all the way from Los Angeles. But if he means by resurrect, to rip off, and if he means by Minneapolis sound, Prince, then maybe he has achieved it. "Tranzishuns" is cheap 80's techno pop dance music with overlaid guitar and syrupy-Prince style vocals. And that being said, it's not bad for what it is.

Miscelaneous informs me that "the buzz around L.A. is that Miscelaneous is here 2 lead the way." If that way is toward the past, then he may be correct. (Jacob Caravan)

Polish the skull ring, crank the Tele, suspend the fourths! Bloody 'ell, nuffin' I enjoy better than a healthy dose of Keef rock. That is unless it's played by a bunch of mercenaries backing a Country Dick Montana wannabe with a serious longing for the return of Cabooze bozo bucks. Lyricist/lead throat/Jim Dandy Mangrum manque Craig Drugge wants to set the way-back machine to 1974, before "rock bands had dj's" and STDs and dram shop laws sucked the life out of the night. Sorry dude, that train kept a rollin' right on by. The playing's tight, if a bit perfunctory, and the sound might be a bit "clean" for the genre. Stick wif the real Richards--or at least Dan Baird. DESIGN NOTE: If you decide to use "mud" in your cover art, make sure it doesn't look like some sort of fecal sludge. UGH! (SCIsadore)

It took me a while before I could define what I thought about the Minneapolis-based band nova-adore. As I listened to the album, “Conclusion to the intro . . .” I kept forgetting I was supposed to pay attention. I’d leave the room, start up the vacuum, eat my toast on the porch. And all along, nova-adore continued to play on the stereo.

The songs are fine, just unarresting. It is rock in its purest form – mostly drums, bass and guitar. The song themes are much of the same – mostly love, betrayal and heartache – and it all goes together to form a benign unit. This band would not be offensive on a stereo in your own home or in the car stopped next to you at a red light.

The lyrics, however, are where nova-adore stand apart from being totally mundane. When I finally sat down and gave Adam Sandberg, Marcus Hall and Bjorn Sorenson a full listen, I was glad the lyrics were included in the CD insert. My favorite line: “She was like a sip of wine from a friend who wouldn’t mind . . .”. from “Love Police.”

If I didn’t also mention the lyrics to the opening song “The Only One,” the boys in the band might doubt I actually paid attention to the album. I wonder if this is the song that has been getting the heavy rotation at the 193 radio stations they boast about in the promotional information (plus the musical accompaniment is a bit better than the norm). Ah yes, this plaintive description of an equality-tinged wet dream featuring his one and only (to be blunt) makes me hope the relationship ends happily ever after.

“Piano song,” however, is worth paying attention to. It’s the last on the album and has everything and more that a song needs to stand out – good lyrics, experimental vocals and music that is repetitive to the point of dreamy hypnosis rather than to the point of boredom.

Nova-adore must have known this song was something special too because they took their name from the lyrics. [Vanessa Moore]

The Ofays country acoustic songs sound a bit underdeveloped and they don't lead to a climax or change your life.

But the melancholy of the slow creeping tunes is like a balm, and after awhile it warms you up ever so slightly. The first track on "Keep the Change" is the best; the dreary wandering vocal melodies are most transporting on this one.

Overall the harmonies of the vocalists are well-performed, though it makes you long for the purposefulness and energy of the similarly-genre-d 16 Horsepower.

They would be advised to craft their songs with more daring; more in the way of "changes" is needed to truly hook the listener by the ear. Still, they are right: the music does go well with most beers and whiskeys. (Serena Vale)

This band's namesake city is a veritable metropolis of legendary indie rock, from the battalion of hipsters at K Records (Built to Spill; Dub Narcotic Sound System) to the angry young folks at Kill Rock Stars (Sleater-Kinney; Bikini Kill). All that, however, has now been thoroughly eclipsed. From now on, when people utter the words "Olympia" and "rock," the one thing that will immediately come to mind is this band. Consider, for your perusal, a full-throttle chainsaw massacre Frankenstein's monster hybrid of sounds that resemble, above all else, an army of every college radio band you've ever loved storming the gates of hell with an army of atomic b-boys and pop-locking house fiends in tow. "The Darkness" boasts soaring, majestic yet chaotic guitar solos reminiscent of both Tom Verlaine and Thurston Moore that strain violently against churning deathpunk sludge riffs that Steve Albini will slit his wrists in envy over if he ever has the occasion to hear them. "Fornication Mountain" and "Mangerine," meanwhile, push the guitars to the background and lets the beat have its day; if this weren't a live band I'd swear this is some batshit collab betwixt DJ Shadow, Basement Jaxx and Timbaland. But the demo really comes together when the vocalists have their time -- Jon Sailer's Lou Reed cool mutters out Ginsbergian death-trip poetry about the wasteland that is America, only to step aside and let nimble-tongued MC Dave Lehnen do his thing; Ludacris and Aesop Rock might have to start filling out applications to Manpower Inc. if this demo ever manages to blow up. Everything about this demo is perfect, each and every one of its thirteen tracks a piece of evidence that sometimes music really can change the world.

You know what? Fuck it. Except for the song titles and the band member names, I made all this up. But seeing as how these guys somehow managed to send us a hastily put-together CD case that contained one (1) blank CD with the band's name and e-mail address written on it but CONTAINING NO ACTUAL MUSIC OR SOUNDS OR ANYTHING, I don't really have much else to go by. And now I've ratcheted up my expectations too high while imagining what this band actually sounds like. Ah crap. (Nate Patrin)

The Rubatos are a SoCal four-piece with a six-song CD offering that was apparently made (very much) on the cheap. That said, it actually sounds pretty good from a production standpoint. Remembering all those crappy 4-track demos on cassette that I’ve reviewed, the digital revolution has been a positive boon for the DIY crowd.
From a stylistic standpoint, it’s hard to say what to call this. Off the top of my head, I’d say there are superficial resemblances to Iggy Pop and Henry Rollins mixed in a sort of ambiguous storyteller folk-rock package. There’s also a bluesy electric guitar sound dominating and a fair amount of keyboards. For a six-song disc, this has a diverse set of material on it. I keep wondering if I’ve reviewed something like this before as I’m getting wicked déjà vu just thinking about my impression of them.
Lyrically is where The Rubatos catch my attention. The lyrics are interesting if a bit mysterious. In fact, I’d say the most interesting feature of The Rubatos is their lyrics. Beats the heck out of me what they mean, but it’s different and interesting. That counts for a lot.
(Conrad Teves)

I very nearly didn’t make it past the first song on this CD. It was as if a drunk teenager with cinderblocks tied to his (or her) wrists were playing along. Loud, plodding, and just plain bad, the guitar playing wrecked nearly every song in which it appeared. Which is too bad, because, despite the title of the CD, Schreeg’s recording isn’t nearly as pretentious as one might think. He plays every instrument, and aside from that fucked up lead guitar work, the music ‘aint half bad. He’s got this kind of raw rock-and-roll folksy sound going, and his lazy, limited vocals fit what he’s attempting to do. Lyrically, he didn’t make me sick—much like his voice, Schreeg’s verse doesn't aspire to anything extraordinary, but they’re reasonably effective. My advice: a band, sir. Get yourself a band. And if you can, change the title of the album. You are not old, therefore you do not have an old soul. As wise as I thought I was when I was 25 (or for that matter, 30) it’s pretty obvious I was dumb, dumb, dumb. (Mike Mitchelson)

Shockwave, a New Hampshire based punk/metal band, has an interesting problem: they know exactly what kind of band they want to be. In their case, this is an anvil-heavy thrash band with punk overtones. Why is this a problem? Well, in and of itself, it’s not. However, Shockwave also likes to have a wide array of serious subject matter that, judging from this 6-song CD, are all delivered like an anvil-heavy thrash band with punk overtones.
Presumably, by selecting serious subjects, they are trying to provoke thought in their audience, but Shockwave has chosen to limit themselves to a relatively narrow idiom, one more likely to provoke moshing than thought. That is, whilst bouncing around in the middle of a mosh pit, I don’t believe I ever once thought (for example), “boy, that child abuse sure does suck,” or “man, those Indians sure got a raw deal,” to coincide with the socially conscious message of the song. Similarly, one would expect sad music to go with a sad song (or not, for say an ironic effect), but Shockwave has (at least here) abdicated any ability to control this by resolutely staying an anvil-heavy thrash band with punk overtones.
If, right about now, anyone were detecting that I have artistic differences with this bunch of songs, they’d be right. (Conrad Teves)

Whoa, this is commercial stuff. And I don't mean that in a good way. Stereo 360's modestly packaged 4-song EP disc, "Quadruple," is well recorded, professional sounding progressive pop rock: definitely students of post R.E.M., made-for-mass-consumption-but-still-college-radio rock. But excellent production and fine musicianship don't make up for the utter lack of inspiration and creativity on this CD. It's plainly formulaic and typical of what passes for alternative music these days. Remember when alternative meant an alternative to what the other stations were playing? Now it's just an empty term meaning wimpy guitar rock with just a little (but not too much) angst: and that's Stereo 360 to a tee. But don't fault them for liking and playing this type of music; they do it quite well. I just believe what they're doing has already been done a thousand times and these guys sound smart enough to be doing tomorrow's alternative to pop, not yesterdays. (Jacob Caravan)

This was a very interesting listening experience. Turner takes a modern, or, more accurately, a classical approach to folk. He plays a subtle guitar, and he’s accompanied by cello, violin and mandolin. Now, there aint no fiddlin’ going on here, this is a straight up classical playing, and some of it is gorgeous. I don’t care for some of his lyrics—the motivational stuff like the tune “Never Give Up,” and other songs are a tad didactic. But musically Turner’s CD excels, and his subtle voice meshes perfectly. My only other complaint was I would have liked to hear the pace pick up a bit on at least one track. (Mike Mitchelson)

I see on their bio sheet that Walter Ego went through the trouble and expense to trademark their band name...I sincerely doubt other bands are waiting in line to steal the name, "Walter Ego." And it's not only their name that's not worth ripping off, it's their sound too. Why? Because it's already contraband. I caught these guys red handed; their bio sheet reveals that their usual set is comprised of mostly cover tunes from the usual greats: Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Cream, etc. Their CD demo is of original compositions, but in the vein of their rock heroes. These guys play fuzzy, shaggy 70's hard rock, without improving upon it one bit. Their sound is very lifted, bordering on copyright infringement. Someone should pull the plug on these rock and roll pickpockets. (Jacob Caravan)

I'm beyond this whole "wow, a hip-hop group/label from [insert city not New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans or Atlanta]! That's some crazy shit!" thing. We got people in goddamned Iceland who sound like the Beastie Boys rockin' mics, so I won't sweat the fact that this label's based in Hartford, Connecticut. What I will sweat is that this is one of those hip-hop CDs where the skits are more entertaining than the musical content. Yeah, I laughed with the "Pernell Jackson" skits, performed with a great "cranky old bastard" voice by one Marshal Brandon (his line in "Pernell Jackson II" mocking aging hustlers wearing cornrows with a bald spot is classic). But most of the tracks on this comp are full of standard if good-flowing player/hustler rhymes and beats that, while hot in places, sort of run into each other if you listen to more than three tracks in a row. Nothing's noticeably bad here, and considering this is the label's first CD this label's off to an alright start. (Nate Patrin)